


Your Daughter

by loveanddeathandartandtaxes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doting Sherlock, First Kiss, M/M, Oblivious John, Parentlock, more or less
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 14:46:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soon enough everything in the house that could reasonably called 'John's' or 'Abigael's' is either wedged into the car or stacked by the front door, and it's a weight off his shoulders, actually, to know he's moving back to Baker Street indefinitely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Daughter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bittersweet_art](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittersweet_art/gifts).



“Be sure to keep her warm, Dr Watson,” the nurse cautions, tucking yet another blanket around Abigael in her carrier.

“I know.”

“Now now, she’s been used to thirty-seven degrees for nine months. Keep her _warm_.”

John’s jaw slackens a little, suitably chastened.

“Ah, of course.”

 

They get - well, it hasn’t felt like ‘home’ for _months_. They get to the house he and Mary had rented. Kate peers out her front window, urges Isaac to join her in assisting John bring everything in. It’s remarkable how much _stuff_ Abigael already has, given she’s only two days old.

 

“Mary still in hospital, then, John?” Kate asks amicably.

“Um,” John hedges.

 

* * *

 

**would you mind abigael at baker st?**

**Of course not. Plug the iron in for me? -SH**

John can’t help smiling, a little. He runs his hand over Abigael’s little body again, hidden away as it is.

 **i meant, could we stay there for a while? I don’t like it here.** Can’t bear the thought of sleeping in that bed, he means, but he does not type that much out. Sherlock will be able to tell he spent last night in the nursery.

**Obviously. Bring citric acid. -SH**

Finding his suitcase, he starts packing as much of his wardrobe as he can. His phone beeps again.

**I’ll be there in 25 minutes. Tell me next time you want help. -SH**

 

He doesn't check the time exactly, but it's certainly no more than half an hour before Sherlock lets himself in.

“It's difficult to read implications in text messages," he berates John, collecting up Abigael's clothing he and Mary had amassed. "It's not unreasonable to ask for assistance; stop feeling guilty."

"Sorry."

Sherlock glares at him. "Just pack your car."

Little more on the subject is said, but soon enough everything in the house that could reasonably called 'John's' or 'Abigael's' is either wedged into the car or stacked by the front door, and it's a weight off his shoulders, actually, to know he's moving back to Baker Street indefinitely. _Not forever, though,_ he thinks. Abigael will need her own room at - some point. Before she goes to preschool, at least. He fumbles his way through another nappy change before they leave.

Unsurprisingly, he has to park a way down the road from 221, so his first load is Abigael in her carrier, while Sherlock totes his suitcase.

"Would you mind keeping an eye on her while I bring up the rest of my things?"

"No," he says, "but it would be faster to give her to Mrs Hudson and let me help."

"Alright, I'll ask her, thanks."

Mrs Hudson is all too happy to help, of course. When the car is empty, Sherlock slips into the driver's seat.

"Wh-"

"Go look after Abigael. Is she due for feeding?"

"She could do, yeah."

Sherlock nods.

“I have your keys."

Patting his pocket, John realises Sherlock is telling the truth.

"Helping whether I like it or not, I see."

"Exactly. See you in an hour." He peels the car off into the traffic.

 

Mrs Hudson has the kettle on and Abigael cradled in one arm, and he can't begrudge her the time for a cuppa.

"John, dear, I'm so glad you're back."

"Me too. It's good to be home."

"It's not the same without you here. _He's_ up at all hours, banging around, sawing away on his violin. Irritable."

"Sounds exactly like when I am here."

"Not like this." She purses her mouth, takes a sip of tea.

Belatedly, John realises what he's said. _Home_. Suddenly everything seems a little cloying. Draining his tea, he stands and takes his daughter.

"I'd best get upstairs and get her a drink put together. Thanks again, Mrs H."

 

Upstairs, he sits Abigael in her carrier on the sofa, to find her formula. When he walks to the kitchen to mix it up, he's pleasantly surprised at how tidy it is. Abigael begins grumbling well before he is ready, so he brings her into the kitchen with him to talk to her, for what it's worth.

"My little dove. Let me just mix this damned formula together, love, and then you can have a nice drink. Maybe I can have a nice drink later."

He remembers to check the temperature only a second before bringing the teat to Abigael's mouth, and coaxes a drop onto his inner wrist.

"Tss, shit that's too hot for you, love. Let's wait a while, yeah?"

It's terrifying, how small she is. Pediatrics was never his focus, and he feels far out of his depth as he eases her into the crook of his arm. Once he's picked his way to his own chair, he settles in to wait for the formula to cool. Abigael cries without conviction, a thin wail. He studies her until he can feed her, and then he watches her drink.

 

When she is lifted from his arms he jolts awake.

“Nnf?”

Sherlock chuckles, and John knows everything is fine.

 

* * *

 

The kitchen stays relatively tidy and always clean, Abigael often wants far more formula than specified in guides, and John feels he has successfully navigated the talking-about-Mary waters with his larger social sphere.

“She’s horrifically inconsistent,” Sherlock complains one evening between cases. They’ve been taking plenty, and John is happy with Sherlock’s decision to solve more of the boring ones. He agrees they’re not as riveting as murder mysteries, but they pay well enough that he hasn’t had to go back to the surgery.

“Who is?”

“Abi. I’ve charted her intake of formula over the last three months. It took you almost a month to give her as much as she wanted, so the data there is spotty, but between ten and fifteen percent of the time she refused to finish her bottle. Now she wants more than recommended upwards of eighty percent of the time, and doesn’t finish a little more than fifteen. She’s on the lower side of average for height - _length_ \- unsurprisingly, but no heavier than an average child her age.”

“You’ve charted Abi’s feeding?”

Sherlock waves him away.

“I can’t find any reasonable cycle to this!”

“She’s a good two to four years away from _ever_ being reasonable, Sherlock. And she’ll grow up visiting you a lot, so I don’t have particularly high expectations of her ever being reasonable _regularly_.”

Grey eyes fix on him.

“ _Visiting_ me? You’re planning on moving out.”

“I don’t want to,” John starts.

“Then don’t.”

John sighs and lets his shoulders roll in on themselves.

“I can’t share a bedroom with her forever.”

Sherlock holds his gaze for a long moment more, his face as inscrutable as always, then turns back to his data without a word.

 

* * *

 

One morning John wakes to find Abi in a different set of clothes than he's sure he put her to bed in. She smiles up at him and burbles as he lifts her out of her cot.

"Sherlock," he calls hesitantly as he descends the stairs. "Did you change Abigael's clothes during the night?"

"Obviously."

"Yeah, obviously. Why?"

Sherlock spares him a withering look over his microscope.

"Why do you ever change a baby's clothes? She had soiled what she was wearing."

It makes perfect sense, of course, but John cannot comprehend it. He sits Abi in her chair.

"Uh. Thanks."

"Not at all."

Pouring them each a bowl of cereal, a thought occurs to John.

"If she'd messed her nappy, how did you know before I did?"

There is a pause.

"I have a listening device in her cot."

John does not get angry loudly. He restrains himself, and Sherlock knows the flatter and blanker his voice and face gets, the madder he is. John stands the box of cereal on the bench and turns to look past Sherlock, who has to know this was not good.

"I've had explosives and a microphone strapped to me, Sherlock," he starts mildly. "My w-" he swallows hard. "My wife used conversations I had with her like bargaining chips with the same man. I do _not like_ my bedroom being bugged."

"I'll remove it if you want," Sherlock promises immediately. "I only turn it on an hour after you've gone to bed."

He stares hard at Sherlock then, trying to determine his truthfulness.

“My bedroom - _anyone’s_ bedroom - should be private. I - it’s private.”

John knows he is blushing, and there are high spots of colour on Sherlock’s cheeks.

“An hour.”

They silently agree (John begs, Sherlock concedes) to not discuss anything that may have been overheard before Sherlock allowed him that unrecorded hour at night.

 

* * *

 

“Da,” Abi declares.

“Yeah, I know, muppet.” John glances back from the stove to where Sherlock is trying to feed Abigael a variety of soft food. “He’s just like that. You learn to go with it.”

“I’m just like what.” Sherlock takes note of Abigael’s opinion on butternut squash, tries it himself, appends his notes, and moves on to banana.

“A madman,”John says lightly. “Right, that just needs to stew a while, then we’ll have some soup to freeze.” He has to sidle past them both to retrieve his laptop from the living room, and kisses first Abigael then Sherlock on the crown of their heads as he passes. He tells himself it’s a joke.

 

* * *

 

He awakens to a scream - not his own, thankfully, although Sherlock’s been decent enough to not mention the occasional breathless sobbing he’s no doubt heard through the ‘baby monitor’ - and lurches to Abigael’s cot. She’s not in it, and John staggers a little, his heartbeat thundering. He’s halfway down the stairs before he even considers a reasonable explanation for his daughter being missing from their bedroom. It’s not until he stumbles into the living room, bracing himself on the doorframe, and he sees Sherlock playing contentedly on the couch with her, that he can catch his breath. Abi lets out another squeal of delight when she sees him, holding her arms out to be picked up.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” he breathes. Sherlock looks him over, his eyes darting from his forehead to his mouth, then his hands, before meeting his eyes.

“We’re not sleepy. Sorry to bother you.”

“No, it’s alright. I’ll just - go back up, yeah?”

“You can… stay, if you want.”

John shakes his head, his eyes already getting heavy.

“I actually _am_ sleepy. You two have fun, just… quieter, please.”

He smiles fondly at them, smoothing a hand over Sherlock’s temple then Abigael’s. Then he drags himself back upstairs.

Sleep has taken a light hold of him when he’s roused again, this time by careful footsteps.

“Come on, Bean, I know you want to cuddle into your cot. Yes. Alright, dear. Daddy’s right here if you need him, and I’m right downstairs. We’ll look out for you.”

His voice was pitched even lower than normal, and the rumble was certainly soothing John.

“D’you guys have fun?” he mumbles.

“Mmhmm.”

He rolls to face Sherlock, and watches him run his hands over Abigael’s sheets.

“Look how much you love her.” Sherlock stiffens and looks at John, seeming almost scared.

“It’s all over your face,” he smiles. “You glow with it, even - even when you’re just looking at me.” Their eyes meet, and the floor drops out from underneath him.

“I do love her very much too, but - John. You must know. Tell me you know.”

John scratches at his hairline. He’s covering his face, he realises, hiding from Sherlock, and isn’t that a pointless endeavour?

“I - I can’t. I didn’t know. Or, I did, but I didn’t let myself think it.”

“Stupid,” Sherlock says, kneeling on the mattress.

“Isn’t everybody?” He flicks back the duvet in invitation.

“Yes, but-” John cannot hear what he says next, as he has buried his head in the pillow by John’s shoulder. There are things he wants to say, things he needs to make sure Sherlock knows too, but he is _very_ comfortable, and it can probably wait.

 

* * *

 

When he next wakes, he eases a hand out slowly until it bumps into a long, warm body.

“Oh good,” he manages. “You’re still here.”

“Obviously.”

John giggles and wriggles closer.

“How do you feel about morning cuddles, then?”

Sherlock’s eyes dance.

“I could be convinced.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock huffs an impatient breath as he feeds Abigael her breakfast and John potters nervously.

“What?”

“ _What_?”

“Why the - the sighing? Are you -”

“No. Stop. That’s the problem. You think I regret this. Don’t.”

“But -”

“Abi, will you be alright with this for a moment, please?”

“Shah.”

“Thankyou.” He stands and corners John against the bench.

“Do you want this?”

John can’t reply, despite opening and closing his mouth repeatedly.

“I want this,” Sherlock continues doggedly. “I want this with you, with your daughter.”

“I think - hmm.” He has to find his voice. “I think, at this point, she’s your daughter too.”

And Sherlock is pulling them together fiercely, but his lips when they touch John’s are tender. He wants to kiss him back; he wants that more than almost anything, but he can’t stop smiling long enough to make his mouth do what he wants it to.

“Yeah,” he gasps. “This, I want. And. Everything else.”

“Good. Soon. I need to finish feeding Abigael.”

“Yeah,” John repeats. But he levers himself up to perch on the worktop, and this time he does manage to kiss Sherlock properly.

 


End file.
